Testing Red Waters
by Angelblaze2007
Summary: Matt Murdock has a pain/self harm fetish. No sex, painplay, implied sexual content, solo masturbation/self harm.


"I - I apologize," Jake's laugh is deep, rumbles in his wide chest. His heartbeat speeds up, the sound of pants skitting together and hitting the cement multiple times, approaching him and then easing into a fighting stance. "This just isn't normal for me and trust me, I know how stupid that sounds."

"Yes, well we're not very normal men." The sharp understatement brings a smile to his face and lets him ignore the itch in his hands for a half-second more before it comes back and he wants to move, the muscles in his arms and back wanting to let loose on something other than an empty, soulless bag.

"Ah, be gentle with me."

"Jake, you and I both know that gentle isn't what we're both here for." Matt grits his teeth, acknowledges that Jake probably isn't a trained combatant and decidedly holds back. No over the top gymnastics, no flipping, no grabbing and breaking parts. A good, clean fight.

Two hours later he stumbles through the door of his apartment and collapses on the floor in a pile of ruined, bruised flesh and blissful satisfaction. Jake had one hell of a solid left cross and he could feel this fight in particular would be thrumming through his bones tomorrow with every step. He kicked the door closed and blanked out on the floor, letting the sensation of soreness and ache drag him down. Brilliant, barely lucid and only vaguely aware of anything and everything. Fifteen minutes of uninterrupted peace.

The floor wouldn't help him heal any faster, as much as his lower half begged for rest. Dragging his body to the couch gave him a reminder of where he'd be hurting and how much for the next few days. Half flung over the couch he pressed his hand to his purple and black shrouded side and pressed in, in the tiny space between the ribs. Then he hissed and melted, hips shifting; Jake could throw a damn good gut punch too. Who knew?

He spent the next hour and half in a daze, unsure of whether he was euphoric or 'under' but not concerned either way. He ventured around every area he could find. The aching ruins of his chest, the multiple open, circular scrapes that were dotted with tiny pieces of concrete against his right side and the open cut from a hard fall against an open, half-empty can of sweet corn that traveled straight up his flank, sharp and angry red.

Every touch brought with it a new sensation of something familiar. Pressing his palms against his right side made the effort of breathing hurt, excessively so on exhaling, as if someone was kicking him in the ribs for daring it. A brilliant, sharp, rough pain that wracked him with shuddering rolls in the shoulders and the instinctive need to breathe deeper.

It was a paradoxical, torturous injury to be sure; making it both hurt to breathe and at the same time, difficult not to. Something somewhat nice in that, he kept his hands pressed there for a few moments, until he found himself sputtering and heaving against the sheets. Then he remembered ending up gasping for air on Clara's couch and decided not to push anymore.

The scrapes were a tiny burn, nothing too harmful or scarring. Scratching them made the concrete pieces fall out. Scratching past that made it bleed tiny red dots through the center and he found himself mesmerized by the even, constant thrum through his veins. Akin to the warmth of waking up from a cocoon of blankets in the morning, cozy and safe despite nothing being out of the ordinary. It spread through his side and to the rest of his body, unwound his muscles and made him ease back against the sofa arm, head turning while he breathed out a moan. "Fuck."

He kept going, eyelids fluttering every time he reached a particularly painful tipping point, either where the finger nails dragged against the edge of a scrape, widening the injury and pulling on the skin, or where his nails directly made contact with the open, bleeding flesh rather than the red, but mundane skin. He kept going, until he felt his fingers slip and saw the extent of the damage he was doing; his finger nails were caked with dirt and grime, painted ebon red. Best not to let the filth of Hell's Kitchen get anymore involved in his body then usual.

The cut on his flank was a tricky challenge. Poking it too much would be risking injury beyond what he wanted. Not poking it at all would be losing out. He pressed the flat of his thumb against it, rubbing it and sensing the red dribbling from the edges that made his breath pick up. Unabsorbing, uninteresting even. He pressed harder, but nothing changed; if anything he felt a vague relief from the pain he desired.

With a last try he pressed two fingers, one on each side of the cut and scissored - a bolt of pain through him. He was opening new ground in it, parting the skin layers on his own rather then merely exaggerating the injury. Sharp, stabbing pain was a nice burst but didn't give him the all encompassing wave that he needed. The cut itself wasn't deep enough to harm him and given where he got it, it was best to keep hands off. Clara could get a look at that one along with his side, make sure of no infections.

He relaxed on the couch and left himself float until morning.


End file.
